The misery, want, and degradation of Rome have this advantage over that
of other cities, that they are lodged almost sumptuously in what should
have been palaces. Those huge and hideous blocks of building which rear
themselves in what are called the new quarters are no tumble-down
age-stricken rabbit-warrens; they have marble staircases, airy rooms,
balconies, ornamental ironwork, lofty doorways. Built for riches, they
have never represented anything beyond rags, dirt, loathsome crowding,
and, for their owners, bankruptcy; but they are better than dark cellars
and fetid streets; and air, light, and sun, at least, visit their
inhabitants. Moreover, blots as they are upon the old beauty of Rome,
it is noticeable already from distant points, such as the front of Sant'
Onofrio, or farther along the Janiculum drive, where form is scarcely to
be distinguished, that in colour, at least, they begin to harmonise
better with their surroundings, and that the sun, the great alchemist of
the South, is turning raw whites and greys into tawny gold and amber,
and that soft indescribable tone which is at once the joy and the
despair of the painter.
Seen more closely, however, their aggressive ugliness is appalling, and
Teresa, as she walked along certain streets which lay below the ascent
to San Pietro in Montorio, glanced at the overgrown blocks with extreme
distaste. She could see something of the emptiness and dirt of the
houses, the strings of ragged clothes fluttering from balconies, the
evil-looking old hags stretching out skinny hands and muttering curses
on her as she passed, the children with pinched and hungry faces,
bare-footed, scantily clothed, with touzled hair and a smile which
belongs to Italy, and Italy only. "_Un soldo, signorina, un soldo! Ho
fame_!" Heaven help them; it was probably true; but Teresa, though she
had soup tickets in her pocket, dared not give them yet, because she
knew the word would pass from street to street, and that when she
reappeared she would be surrounded, almost torn to pieces, by struggling
claimants.
She found the number she was looking for, and picked her way up a broad
staircase thick with accumulations of dirt. A ragged boy guided her to
a door, at which she knocked. Another boy opened it, small, sickly, and
lame. The two children stared at Donna Teresa, and she looked into the
room with interest. It was fairly clean, miserably bare, and empty as
to the man she wanted. In answer to her question, the lame boy shook
his head. Cesare was his brother, he was out, he did not know when he
would return. Teresa was unconsciously annoyed by a whine in his voice
of the same kind as that which she had just passed through. She sent
away the first boy, who peeped and listened from round a corner, and
asked questions, getting, oddly enough, exactly the answers she
expected. Cesare was long absent. Angelino, his brother, was often
hungry--oh, often, and his back hurt him, but, certainly, that often,
too. With easiest flexibility of conscience he was prepared to admit
all suggested evils and to invent any others which might affect this
signora in a benevolent direction, so soon as he caught a hint of what
would best serve his purpose. Teresa was shrewd enough at last to find
this out, and it changed her plan. Without giving a name she told the
cripple that she would write to his brother, presented him with a lira
for his own amusement, and fled. On her way home she reflected, with
the result that in the evening a letter went to Cesare Bandinelli,
enclosing five hundred lire and a few words: "Will you remember that I
owe you a reparation, and accept this for Angelo.--T. di Sant' E."
She drew a sigh of relief when it was out of the house.
The next day was yet early when Nina, dumb but expressive, brought her a
packet, which she recognised with a sinking heart. The money and her
own letter were crammed into an envelope, as if thrust there by
trembling and furious fingers. Not a word came with them, and Teresa's
face tingled as if she had been struck. After she had thought about it
all day, she felt there was nothing to do except to accept defeat and to
tell Wilbraham, hating the telling as we hate to repeat an insult, but
forcing herself, under the impression that the incident counted better
for Cesare than for herself.
"I ought not to have done it," she owned.
"No, you ought not," assented Wilbraham coldly. "He's an ungrateful
hound."
Teresa fired.
"I can't see where ingratitude comes in! Do you expect him to be
grateful for my mistake?"
"How was he the worse for it?"
"How? Hasn't he suffered?"
"Suffered! A night in a police cell!" said Wilbraham with a smile,
which she thought insufferable. "My dear Donna Teresa, he has probably
made acquaintance with such quarters before--or, at any rate, I will
engage to find you fifty men who, for a hundredth part of what you
offer, would occupy them with all the goodwill in the world."
It is the truth in our opponent's arguments which we find annoying.
Teresa knew that Wilbraham spoke like a man of experience, and was
angry. She flung up her head.
"You seem to forget that I said the money had been returned. Perhaps
you will find fifty men to do that?"
"It would require sifting of my scoundrels," laughed Wilbraham. "I
grant you that only the cleverest would remain." He sat forward, and
began to drive in his truths. "Don't you see that the fellow is shrewd
enough to read your thoughts and trade upon them?"
The air in the room had grown heated. Mrs Brodrick's eyes rested
anxiously for an instant upon the young marchesa's displeased face.
Teresa did not speak. Wilbraham went on--
"You may be sure he hopes to get more out of you than even your prodigal
five hundred lire. He proposes to work upon your--what shall I call
it?--sensitiveness."
Teresa was sitting upright, and her eyes were very bright.
"Is that the best you have yet found in human nature?" she said quietly.
"It is what I have most often found," returned Wilbraham with a little
surprise.
She glanced at him so strangely that he felt an odd desire to excuse
himself, almost a new sensation, but before he could speak, Sylvia broke
in with the appealing timidity which he recognised as a pleasant
contrast to her sister's impetuosity.
"I am sure you have done everything you could think of, Teresa, and so
has Mr Wilbraham. I daresay it will all come right by-and-by, when
Cesare understands that it was only a mistake. Everybody makes mistakes
now and then, of course."
It was these platitudes, announced as discoveries, which were apt to
irritate Mrs Brodrick. But she owned that occasionally they had their
uses. Wilbraham now turned to Sylvia with an air of interest, while
Teresa's face softened.
"Come," she cried more gaily, "let us talk of something else. Talk of
to-morrow. Thank goodness, that must always be a new subject. What
shall we do, good people? Shall we drive to Ostia?"
Sylvia opened her eyes. She was opening her mouth as well, when her
grandmother spoke.
"If you do, I think I'll go with you."
"That settles it," said Teresa happily. She had recovered herself so
completely that even Mrs Brodrick wondered at the swift change,
especially when she turned kindly to Wilbraham. "You'll come, too,
won't you? I'll undertake to keep off dangerous subjects, and then I
shan't be cross."
"I'll come if I may."
His tone was still a little stiff, and Teresa, glancing at him, saw that
he was looking at Sylvia.
Except for the Tiber--and that can often be as grim as its history--the
road to Ostia begins wearyingly. Farther on it grows rapidly in
interest, till, when you reach Ostia itself, you think no more about
beauty or interest, or your own passing sensations--it is too great.
Sad, even in clearest sunshine, with rifled temples, ruined splendour,
and the melancholy of its deserted gods, the sombre weight of centuries
broods over it. The Tiber--no mere river here, but the symbol of a lost
empire--swirls sullenly by, and as the sun sets and Vulcan's shrine
crimsons in its glow, fever creeps shivering from misty pools and
clutches its victims. Those who go to Ostia should not linger too long.
But this day, on which Teresa brought her there, the sadness was but
delicately suggestive and not oppressive. The air was warm, yet fresh
and invigorating, and Teresa herself was in high spirits.
"Come," she cried breathlessly, when she had climbed a steep bank, and
stood looking out at the Tiber, now faintly yellow and grey, "come,
Sylvia, and let us be foolish by ourselves."
"Foolish!" repeated Sylvia startled.
Mrs Brodrick, had she been near enough, would have smiled, but Teresa
nodded gaily.
"As foolish as we like. Mr Wilbraham can look after granny and improve
her, while we enjoy our ignorance. It's much better fun to imagine
things than to know them. Let us run down there to begin with, and peep
behind those columns. Who knows what might not be hiding there! Come,
Sylvia!"
And she held out her hand.
But the girl looked round her doubtfully. She did not like foolishness
when she heard of it, and her sister's imagination was apt to make her
uncomfortable. Slow doubt crept into her voice.
"If you like--if you're sure it's safe." She added more quickly, "It's
so very lonely there, isn't it?"
Teresa instantly yielded.
"Let us sit where we are then. Nothing can be more charming," she went
on, dropping on the short turf and clasping her knees, while Sylvia took
elaborate precautions against the damp she dreaded. "Oh, Sylvia!"
sighed Teresa, "to think that I should really be sitting here and
talking to you, after that life!"
"At Florence, do you mean? I suppose the old marchesa was very unkind,
for you to have disliked it so much?"
The other did not answer at once.
"Unkind? Well, no, she did not mean to be unkind. Do you know, I
believe you would have got on very well with her. I'm sometimes so
dreadfully difficult! But we won't talk about Florence. We are here,
here, at Ostia, you, and granny, and I!"
"And Mr Wilbraham," put in Sylvia conscientiously.
"Yes, Mr Wilbraham. You mustn't remind me of him when he is off our
hands." And Teresa shot a small grimace in his direction. "Let us talk
of something nice. What shall we do with all our money? I shall get a
dog. What will you have?"
"Do you really mean I can choose something?"
"Oh, silly! Of course you may. What's the good of it otherwise?"
"A new hat--"
"Hat, frock, umbrella. Oh, you do want a new umbrella, Sylvia! Yours
is in holes. We'll make a list. Have you got a watch?"
"No," said Sylvia, in amazement.
Her mouth remained open, while Teresa dragged out a card and jotted down
thing after thing.
"We must find out the best watchmaker," she said thoughtfully. "We must
ask."
"Mr Wilbraham," suggested Sylvia.
"Mr Wilbraham! He doesn't know everything."
"Oh, no, I didn't mean that he did." Sylvia was often prosaically
explanatory, desiring what thoughts she had to be distinctly outlined.
"I meant that he was a man, and heard of things more than we could;
granny said so."
"Well, if it satisfies you, we'll ask him. He will be so pleased!"
"Why?"
"Why?" The young marchesa laughed. "He likes to stand on a pedestal,
that's why, my child." Seeing Sylvia's puzzled face she dropped the
subject. "Let us go on. The last thing was a watch. Now, what next?
Ivory brushes?"
"Teresa! Don't get me anything more."
"Then we'll take the other side of the paper for granny. I'm afraid
she's going to be disappointing," said Teresa gloomily. "I intend to
order a carriage by the month, of course, but when I ask her about other
things she doesn't seem to care. She says habits are nicer than
anything else when you're old. She likes to be frugal, because she's
had to be all her life."
"She loves books about Rome," hazarded the younger girl.
"Oh, so she does! She shall have them, she shall have them all," said
the marchesa with a fine spread of imagination. "How clever of you!
Now the next thing is to find out about them."
"Mr Wilbraham would know," said Sylvia, and Teresa, turning upon her
with an impatient laugh, was struck suddenly dumb by catching a wistful
glance flung towards the spot a little way off where Wilbraham stood
patiently pointing out the intricacies of a ruined columned court. It
seemed to her as if, in the shock of the surprise, her heart stopped
beating. Most women have intuitions which are not unlike another sense,
for they are as sure and as inexplicable; and hers swept the past days
and took in the result in an instant. She had not thought of Sylvia
marrying, because of that intangible want, of which she was conscious
herself, while she resented the consciousness in Mrs Brodrick. Yet,
after all, what was it? Sylvia was not quite clever--might sometimes be
thought a little tiresome. A man might condone all that for a look in
her face.
"Shall we go back to the others?" she said hesitatingly.
"Oh, yes!" cried the girl, springing up.
The marchesa, suddenly observant, began to think there was no doubt as
to Sylvia's feelings. But what of his?
"I must find out," she said to herself gravely.
Her grandmother greeted them with a smile.
"We were coming," she said, "but I have been reading my book, and you
have skipped all the improving pages."
"Do you mean Murray?" asked Sylvia innocently.
"Sylvia knows that my grandmother and her Murray are inseparable,"
hastily interposed Teresa. She need not have minded. Wilbraham was
looking at the girl with a pleased satisfaction. He thought that women
were much alike, except that some were prettier than others. Mrs
Brodrick laughed, and did not resent her granddaughter's explanation,
but her eyes were grave and looked as if she, too, were observing.
Teresa saw this, and saw that another had hit upon her discovery. She
was very swift in carrying out her impulses, and she made up her mind
that if Sylvia really liked this man her part must be to smooth matters
for her happiness. The thought she flung at Wilbraham was tinged with a
slight wonder, but his action was his own affair. She would do what
seemed best for her sister.
"You are right, granny," she said, "we have wasted our time
disgracefully. It was my fault. Sylvia wanted to come and be informed.
So now!"
"Now we will have our food. All that I have heard has made me hungry."
She spoke lightly, but her old eyes were still grave, and Teresa could
see that what had come to them both was troubling her grandmother. The
consciousness of this roused a reckless spirit in herself. Wilbraham,
who was not a keen-witted man where women were concerned, knew nothing
more than that this luncheon of theirs, taken on a grassy hillock with
the river close beneath the bank, and red ruins lying in sunlight, was
pleasanter than anything he had experienced of late. He connected it
with Sylvia, who sat beside him, and chirruped cheerful truisms. Mrs
Brodrick, who knew better, watched Teresa.
They strolled about afterwards, and went back through the ruins to fetch
a young guide, who came out to them pale with ague. Teresa contrived
that Wilbraham and Sylvia should be much together, but never alone. She
fastened all her attention upon her sister, many times interposing with
some guiding remark, only to slip again easily out of the conversation.
They went into the little temple of Mithras, which interested Wilbraham
immensely.
"Sylvia never heard of Mithras," reflected Teresa uneasily, and, while
the younger girl opened an inquiring mouth, struck in with an
intentionally ignorant question. Wilbraham answered, and Sylvia drank
in his words without in the least understanding them. But Wilbraham was
one of those men with whom attention is prized beyond intelligence, or
perhaps supposed to represent the same quality.
Then they talked of the leading impression which touches us in such
places as Ostia, where a far past reigns.
"Sylvia and I are vague," said Teresa boldly.
"Isn't it a wonder that man should so quickly go, and his works so long
outlive him?" asked Wilbraham.
"Isn't it a conviction that that is impossible?" put in Mrs Brodrick.
"Perhaps," said Wilbraham gravely, and glancing at Sylvia. He was not a
very religious man himself, but he would wish his wife to be religious.
And then he hastily put aside the thought as ridiculous.